Mirrored
by sassyduck
Summary: When Emma disappears, it seems that Killian is the only one who can enter the realm she has been taken to and possibly bring her back. But how can he bear to take her away from a life filled with seemingly everything she's ever wanted...a life where she seems truly happy?
1. Chapter 1

An invisible rope had been fastened in her chest, and it was drawing her ever onward, over gnarled roots and down slippery, moss-covered hills. Nothing particularly felt real, not the branches tangled in her hair, not the scrapes on the base of her palms from a not-so-graceful tumble, not the water seeping in through her socks as they trod on damp leaves. All that particularly mattered was that she needed to find the other end of the rope that drew her deeper into the Maine woods.

She had never seen the rough wood lodge before, hadn't known it was there until the moment she looked up from where she had fallen to her knees yet again and saw it through a small gap in the thick trees. She drifted towards the door, hand outstretched, and it gave way easily before her, revealing the most beautiful mirror she had ever seen. The clear glass stood taller than she did, surrounded by a heavily carved silver frame that ended in ornate clawed feet that rested on the spare slats of the floor. As she stepped closer, her surroundings shimmered, the light swelling as the shabby interior transformed into a lavish sitting room that could have belonged in any palace.

Her fingers brushed the warm surface of the glass, stretching it a moment before the barrier disappeared. She should have been startled, even with all her experience with magic in this world and the Enchanted Forest. Instead, she took a solid step through.

* * *

Killian whistled as he brought the _Roger_ into port, a playful breeze tossing his hair. He had been out to sea for two weeks this time and had brought back quite a catch. The citizens of Storybrook had been surprised when he had first brought fresh fish into port—honestly, how did people think pirates survived when they were hard on a fat merchant ship and couldn't go into port for fresh supplies?—but, it seems, their surprise had been short lived when they saw the quality of the fish he brought in. Even with as many barrels as he could stock in two weeks, he knew his merchandise would disappear by the afternoon, gone in trade for anything he needed—or wanted—or for that strange paper currency they used in this land. By then, Emma would have heard that he was back and would probably be waiting for him at Granny's, chess board already set and cocoa at least halfway gone.

The morning seemed to crawl by, especially since Killian received fewer customers than usual. Odd, that. He shrugged and added some cod and halibut to Granny's case of tuna, sure that he could sweet talk her into taking a few extra pieces, and finished packing the rest of his things back on his ship. He glanced at the angle of the sun and smiled. He might just beat Swan to the diner this time and get 'the good seat' at their table.

His feet were swift on the pavement despite the heavy case he carried, the lightness in his heart a feeling he was starting to get used to. It was true, this life had fewer adventures for a pirate, fewer uncharted territories to charge into, harsher consequences for living as lawlessly as he was used to, but he was strangely comfortable in his new routine, the spray of the sea harsher in these northern climes, needing a stronger will to know and conquer their currents and swells. Besides, the combination of very eccentric and rather strong personalities in Storybrook made for plenty of small adventures as the inhabitants tried to reconcile their cursed lives and the fairy tale ones—all while trying to keep what little magic still existed a secret from the now not entirely uncommon visitor.

Killian hopped up the few steps to Granny's and pulled the handle, grunting when the door remained firmly in its frame instead of swinging free. He frowned, pulling again, but the door remained shut. He set his case down and cupped his hands against the window, peering inside. It was empty. Granny's was _never_ empty, not unless it was closed—and sometimes even then you could find it packed with her closest friends.

Something wasn't right. Killian set off at a jog towards the Sherriff's station, an uncomfortable lump forming in his gut. Emma could explain, he was sure. She would have everything infuriatingly under control. Her grace under pressure really was…endearing, he supposed. And if he had to cause a little chaos every once in a while so he could see that side of her, well…it was worth the minor amount of trouble it got him in.

Both her small, yellow moving contraption and the larger, more tank-like official vehicle were in the lot. Killian strode into the station, a smile on his lips as he hummed a tune Emma had told him was usually used to herald the dark lord in one of her 'movies.' But the tune died in this throat when he found the station dark and in disarray, a rumpled Charming asleep on the cot of the open cell. Killian strode to him, his hand fastening on the other man's shoulder to wake him.

Charming started, his bleary eyes darting around until they settled on the pirate. "What the hell is going on?" Killian asked, and the prince sat up, running a hand across his features. "Emma is missing."


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Thank you so much for the reviews and follows! Hope you enjoy the new chapter-I won't update this often on a regular basis, so enjoy. Let me know what you like about the piece and if there's anything you'd like to see (I have the general direction of where I'm going with a few specific points I need to hit, but there's a lot of room for improvisation)._

* * *

"What the hell do you mean, _missing_?"

"She was gone when Henry woke up two days ago, wasn't at work, not at Granny's…not anywhere." Charming stood, working the kinks out of his shoulders as he shuffled over to the stale pot of coffee. "We've been trying to find her, have set up search quadrants, but she's vanished."

Killian slammed his good hand on the table next to the coffee maker, the impact making the pitcher rattle on its perch. "You haven't been trying hard enough! Emma wouldn't just leave! She—"

Charming placed his hand gently on Killian's shoulder, stunning him into silence. "I know we haven't always…gotten along, and I do know you are her friend. But she is _my_ daughter. Do not think for a moment that there isn't anything that I wouldn't do—that there isn't anything that I _am doing_—to bring her home safe and sound."

Killian's jaw tightened, but his head dipped in a slight nod before moving to the map he had noticed on the table. He studied it a minute before clearing his throat. "So, ah, then…how can I help?"

Charming's lips twitched as he considered a moment before answering. "Let me tell you what's been done…maybe you'll think of something we haven't."

Killian couldn't help but grin. Charming might have an insufferably large bleeding heart, but he never let something as insignificant as a grudge—even a grudge over being hit across the head by a rather large crowbar—stand between him and something he wanted to accomplish.

It was almost admirable. Almost.

Charming had just started going through the different sectors they had established when a vehicle came to a screeching halt outside, the doors slamming as the driver—Snow white herself—came rushing into the station, Henry following close behind.

"Ruby thinks she's found her."

* * *

Killian followed the Charmings at a slight distance, the urge to give them some space warring with his need to make sure Emma was alright. The four of them had driven out of town in a direction Killian had never been and had met the wolf girl at the edge of the road. She had led them directly into the wood, her path wandering in and out of the pines in what would have seemed random changes of direction had Killian not known that she was following a trail none of them could have detected.

His boots slipped in the mud, his loss of traction causing him to almost run into Snow White when everyone in front of him stopped suddenly. He muttered darkly to himself as he regained his balance and straightened to his full height to see over their shoulders. Gold—for he was no longer the Dark One, no longer even the same man Killian had hated—stood in front of what appeared to be an abandoned shack, hands folded primly over the head of his cane.

"Well, dearies, it seems someone else has brought magic to Storybrook."

Killian pushed past the others. "Where is Emma?" he demanded. Gold may not be his crocodile, but if he had a hand in her disappearance, their fragile truce was off.

Gold gave him a smirk and gestured towards the door. "See for yourself, pirate."

The door was stiff, its hinges rusted closed from years of exposure, but it finally yielded to the force of Killian's shoulder as he shoved it open. The interior was dim and spare, the rough-hewn floor bare except for a thin layer of dust…and a heavy mirror in a gleaming silver frame. The incongruity was disorienting, and chill running through him as if a shedu's claws had raked his spine.

And there, at the crest of the frame, was a miniature replica of Emma's face, eyes closed and hair flowing around her as if suspended in water.

"I don't understand," Henry said from behind him, and Killian turned towards the lad, his jaw tight and a knot lodged in his throat. "Ruby said this is where her trail lead. Mom should be _here_."

Killian placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, not quite sure how to explain, even to a kid who was no stranger to the quirks and dangers of magic.

"She's trapped in the mirror," Gold said softly, and everyone but Killian turned to stare at the pawnbroker. "It's an enchantment I've heard of, but had never seen before. Mirrors make great portals, but this one leads to a world made _specifically_ for Miss Swan. It will only exist while she's there, and the mirror is the only way in…or out."

Killian glanced up at Gold and gave the man a slight nod, grateful he had chosen not to mention that, while the world beyond the glass _could_ be the embodiment of everything the target most desired…it had most often been used as a prison, forcing the captive to relive his or her worst nightmares.

"Well then, let's go get her." Charming and Snow White locked hands and walked towards the mirror. He pressed his hand against the glass, but it was cold and unyielding. Snow tried as well, but with just as much success as her husband.

"I almost forgot to mention: only someone who is not already present in the fabricated world will be able to enter. Both of your majesties must already be there, reproduced from Emma's memories."

"So we'll have to find someone Emma has never met to go in?" Snow cried, her frustration getting the better of her. "How will someone she doesn't trust even be able to convince her to leave?"

"It will be quite difficult, I'm sure," Gold snipped back. "But it doesn't necessarily have to be someone she doesn't know—just someone who hasn't already been recreated. It all depends on whatever the sorcerer who cast the spell wants with your daughter. They may have chosen to purposely avoid her interacting with some people, or he may not have needed others to create the world." He shrugged. "It's really impossible to tell without entering." His eyes landed on Henry, and Gold grimaced. "I wish there were more I could do to help, truly, but even if I still had magic, there'd be nothing I could do."

Killian stood and turned towards the glass as Snow and Charming gathered Henry in a large hug. He knew he would have to try and enter—he owed Emma, and her family needed her, after all—but he wasn't sure if it would be worse for the mirror to remain solid or to let him in. Yes, they had become friends, he supposed, but he had no illusions that they were anything more than that. He adored the way she stood toe to toe with him, never giving an inch for even a moment, if he was being completely honest, and it would be quite a blow if she hadn't valued his friendship enough in return to want to recreate his likeness.

But it would be worse to not be able to go in after her and expose that world for the lie it was.

The surface was cold against his fingertips and seemed solid. Killian frowned, concentrating as he pressed harder, and the glass began to yield, pooling slightly around his hand as he forced it through. He took a deep breath and pressed the rest of the way in without sparing a glance behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: I'm so sorry this chapter took this long. I was suffering from some pretty intense writer's block for a week or so, and then work literally ate my soul until now. Thank you for being patient, and I hope the wait was worth it. Please review—it keeps me going to get feedback, or just hear that people are enjoying it._

* * *

Killian stumbled, his balance so upended by the sudden step down that he fell to his knees on the bare wooden floor. The air, though somewhat stale in the room he had fallen into, had a sweet aftertaste that clung to the inside of this throat and made him want to retch repeatedly. He took in his surroundings, immediately noting the different angle of the sun streaming through windows set in masonry walls—not wood ones—much farther across the room than would have been possible in the small shack in the woods.

He had made it through.

He swallowed against the acrid taste a knot in his stomach had pushed to back of his mouth and put his left arm down—intending to use it to help lever his body off the floor—and cursed as a splinter pierced the skin of his ring finger. Killian blinked and lifted his left hand up to his face for closer inspection. He flexed each finger in turn, finding the appendage startlingly intact. He frowned, his emotions stuck between wonder and—surprisingly—dismay. Was he not the infamous Captain Hook, most feared pirate across several realms over? He had been such for so long he wasn't sure he _could_ be anything else.

The moment he thought it, his hook reappeared at the end of his arm as if his hand had never rejoined his body. There had been no pain, no tug or slice or…anything, really. One minute, he had both hands. The next, it was gone again, his curved weapon firmly in place.

He frowned deepened into a scowl as he turned towards the mirror to see if anything else about him had been changed and found that he had been dressed in one of the most ridiculous get-ups Killian had ever seen. Oh, the leather trousers and polished black boots fit well enough, but the jacket, while made of a fine silk, was cut too tight, too short, and it was over-embellished with swirling gold thread. And then there was the lace-edged white scarf tied about his neck, the velvet cape hanging off one shoulder, and the feathers cap perched on his head. He looked like a damned popinjay, for the love of the gods! This would _not_ do.

Killian closed his eyes and concentrated, fixing on an image of something much more like his beloved justacorps: simple, loose-fitting, and much more subtle in its richness. The transformation took more effort this time, but, when he lifted his eyelids, his reflection wore something much more suitable than the foppish attire he had been given. The coat was still silk and retained some of the ostentatious embroidery, though the thread had darkened to a royal blue, and the coat itself had at least taken a shape that suited him, the wide lapels open over a fine linen shirt. Killian wondered if the clothes had been formed by the magic of this place or crafted by Emma's imagination. He hoped—for her sake—that it was the former and not the latter, else she would have some explaining to do.

Finally at least somewhat satisfied, he turned to the window to survey the world that had been constructed to ensnare the feisty Miss Swan. A great garden was laid out in front of the abandoned cottage, paths and hedges and ponds twisting between him and a magnificent castle perhaps a league off. The sun gleamed on the tall glass windows—glass, wide, indefensible expanses of it, and not a single arrowslit to be seen in the entire façade—as it crept towards the horizon, a great number of people filing along the bridge that spanned a deep natural gulley. Other than the single point of entry, there were no other obvious security measures—no drawbridge, no barbican or gatehouses, not even a wall higher than a man's waist, and that had only been constructed to prevent someone from falling down the cliffs atop which the structure had been perched. He looked at his hook again and sighed, pulling the memory of having a hand to the front of his mind. The hook resisted, and a fine sweat appeared on his brow before his left hand finally reappeared some minutes later, and an ornate saber now hung at his waist. Yes, he had to be as inconspicuous as possible while getting the lay of the land, but he was damned if he would venture anywhere unarmed.

* * *

The sun had almost set by the time Killian started making his way across the now empty bridge, his footsteps echoing off the waist high walls on either side. He concentrated on the cobbles, not wanting to make eye contact with the automaton guards posted by the ornate lampposts that dotted the wide avenue at even intervals. He had initially been unsure as to how he was going to get by them without being noticed—the element of surprise was sometimes a pirate's most powerful weapon, after all—but they hadn't reacted to the statuette he had managed to pull off the parapet, despite the loud screech it had made as it collided with one of the pilings before hitting the water. One, a tall man with deep brown eyes and not a trace of stubble to be seen despite the fact that he appeared more than old enough for it, didn't even blink when Killian had put a finger under the man's nose to see if he was alive. The bloke had been breathing all right, but there had been no play of emotion or recognition behind his eyes, no recoil at Killian's proximity, no outward reaction of any kind. It was…disconcerting, and the others were just the same. So he kept his feet and eyes fixed to the middle of the road and strode as efficiently as possible.

He slowed as he approached the castle's heavily carved doors, shut against the slight chill of the night air and any possibly any additional guests. Killian eyed the guards stationed on either side, weighing his options. It was possible that they would remain frozen, but it was equally likely that they would not take too kindly to a stranger breaching the object of their protection, so he veered left, following the terrace around to the side that could be seen from the cottage.

A strain of music drifted in the slight breeze as he neared the largest section of windows at the rear of the castle, and Killian's feet itched to join in the dance for a moment. It had been several lifetimes since he had the opportunity or desire to cavort in such a manner, but something about the tune caught at him and drew him closer. He crept to the window, stunned momentarily by the vast number of people swirling in time with the music behind the glass. It was truly a magnificent party, one the likes of which hadn't been seen in any of the realms he had visited—probably because such splendor would have been extremely costly in any real world—and he was suddenly glad that his clothing had resisted changing too much. The embroidery, though ostentatious, would help him blend in.

Killian was edging towards one of the wrought iron doors, a plan for finding Emma in such an immense crowd, when a pair of hands slammed his face into the cold glass, the voice behind him snarling, "Intruder!"


End file.
